Poor boy
by K896
Summary: Scout makes the mistake of running into a Pyro. The story uses the pronoun "they" for Pyro. Contains violence. No slash.


Scout's head slammed against the wall again. He looked up meekly at the formidable apparition before him. He could almost hear muffled chuckling behind the everpresent low growl of the flamethrower.

"Please, man..." was all he could muster up before the compression blast hit him in the face again, making him gag with the smell of gasoline and smashing the back of his head on the concrete wall. The Pyro had chased him and airblasted him into a corner and now simply stood in front of him, unmoving, blocking any form of escape. Their flamethrower was at the ready and Scout knew better than to try to run. His badly wounded leg slowed him down, and if the Pyro didn't burn him alive while he limped away, he would surely meet his end in the form of a barbed wire-adorned axe in his back. Plus, repeatedly having his head slammed against the wall had probably made him too dizzy to even stand up, so he sat in horrified silence before the schizophrenic murderer.

The Pyro was just playing, of course. They found it funny to see their opponent shivering in the corner and receiving minor concussions from the compression blast, but they had no intention to kill him. Yet. They simply stood before the terrified boy sitting in the corner, shaking their head silently when he attempted to move or fidget and airblasting him in the face when he got grumpy with them. They only wanted him to sit still for a minute, just to see if he could. A harmless experiment, really. It was in vain, since apparently he couldn't sit still for more than ten seconds before the Pyro had to discipline him again.

Scout seemed scared of simply seeing the Pyro, let alone of facing them. They remembered that time they had triumphantly raised their flamethrower over their head, howling in exhilaration after a killing spree, and saw this same boy let out a little, almost girly scream and run as fast as his legs could carry him. They knew the effect that their appearance had on people, even their own teammates. And there the Pyro was, trying their damndest not to start laughing as they watched the almost comically scared Scout.

"Please..." he was whimpering now. Like a scared little kid. The Pyro, suddenly enraged, lifted one hand from the flamethrower and slapped him hard. Who sent scared little kids to fight them? They had already taken and thrown across the room every weapon Scout had. There was a proper scattergun which the boy seldom used (unfortunately for him) a can of soda (seriously?) and a wooden baseball bat (come on, this is a war, not Little League). The kid was a goddamn joke. A child, practically taken from his mother and thrown in the fray with psychopaths, homicidal maniacs and mercenaries with no capacity for remorse. And now he would die in the hands of an insane pyromaniac.

A tear rolled down Scout's cheek. Pyro nearly went into a frenzy. They slammed their foot on Scout's injured leg, making him scream in pain, and broke his nose in one hit for wasting their time. This was survival of the fittest. A war. People dying every day. Not a game of tag in the streets of Boston. There was no excuse for whining and they couldn't stand slobbering little kids. The kid was legitimately crying now from a mixture of shock, fear, and pain.

Pyro grabbed him by the neck and lifted him, slamming him against the wall. They took out their flaregun and pressed it on the kid's temple. He was watching them with red wet eyes, blood freely flowing from his nose. He already knew begging for mercy wouldn't help. He closed his eyes and recollected everything. His life in Boston, his mother's smile, his home, his first kiss, his old childhood friends, the surprise birthday party his brothers had thrown him last year...

There was a bang, and Scout's dead body fell on the floor. There was a large hole in his head, surrounded by burning flesh. Pyro looked down on it and resolutely turned around. No matter what their teammates may think of them, they knew perfectly well what they were doing. They just happened to be more creative with their kills than most mercenaries.

Walking away, Pyro saw the boy's baseball bat on the floor. Picking it up, they examined it for a moment before throwing it away. It was wooden and therefore useless. The boy might have been good with the thing, but fire always burns wood. He should have known better. Pyro had a brief vision of Scout, running freely around the baseball field, doing what he loved and possibly having a bright future as a baseball player in front of himself. All those hopes and dreams now oozing through the bloody, charred hole in his skull.

Pyro shrugged it off. One last glance back and they left, muttering to themselves.

"Poor boy."


End file.
